09: December 2015 #11 - Leslie

Authored by Susan Konz


by Susan Konz

I should have killed that bitch,
he said, choked her with my own hands.
Then demonstrates my body how he would have
and laughs. What was your name again? Leslie?
Why not? I’ve never seen her sturdy legs in dark
denim, suede boot below the knee, walking intentional
from the courthouse door, wide-gait. A body
that skis in Vermont with second-husband Randy,
a body that gets ventilated, sweat out & spa-ed.
A litigious body Leslie still alive & me
her proxy for this anger. I’ve lost mass or
is it density so that I’m something now a hand
can pass through, some drawn spook.
It’s fine. Most of the time I don’t even know
when I’m lying anymore, to be honest.
Don’t say that. You shouldn’t
say that, I told him. At night, alone, I trace my hands
over my body under blankets like even in all that dark
I still can’t look and it’s unfamiliar – rubbery & expanding
I squeeze the fat at my hips, finger the purple-gashed
skin, carry my breasts, my belly I’ve been feeding flexi
straws and the silver halide off old photos and still
I’m surprised when I come to him, hungry. He says,
I wanted to, but I didn’t that’s the difference.
To be honest, when he said out to see I pictured a hay
colored skiff, some forgotten thing bobbing in blue.
This body won’t take
anymore. I mean, nothing holds
& how can I know it’s there?
The thing he feels at the end of his fingers.
Those warm hands at my throat.